by Jay Atkinson
Leo Papile always made a grand entrance, often accompanied by a retired pal or two from Quincy, who acted as his comic foils, as gofer and chauffeur. Upon sighting his old partner, Joe McCain raised his glass and called out, but Leo needed to make his rounds first, kissing all the wives and girlfriends, flattering them, whispering that he was available if their plans for the evening didn't work out. Leo inevitably made a scene when he stopped at the bar, complaining that Joe was too fucking cheap to stock this or that, whereupon he settled for the usual: a whiskey and soda.
Approaching his host, Leo would say something like “Where'd you get that tie, Joe— off a corpse?”
“Yeah,” said Joe. “And that sweater matches those pants like nobody's fucking business.”
In his trademark hoarse voice, Leo would turn to his buddies from Quincy and say, “How many times I saved this guy's ass and now he's insulting me? Merry Christmas, everybody. Hey, fuck you.”
It would go on like this for a few minutes, and then Joe Doyle would announce that he was leaving, or the firm's landlord and principal client, Mike Kettenbach, would come through the door and Joe McCain would be called away. But he always felt better when Leo was there, flirting with the ladies and belittling the men, forever the star of his own traveling show.
Joe McCain had a number of partners over the years, and he got a kick out of each and every one of them: the hefty and soft-spoken Dick Horrigan, looking like some 1970 Telly Savalas sidekick cop; Jack Crowley, bearish and jovial, with a quip for every occasion; and the “kids” from Special Investigations, Gene Kee and Dennis Febles and Mark Lemieux, each a fixture at the annual holiday gathering and indelible in his own right. But Leo Papile was Ward Bond to McCain's John Wayne; he was Buzz Aldrin to Joe's Neil Armstrong. Second banana, perhaps, but first in his colleague's heart and beloved despite his quick temper and blunt manner of speaking. When they worked together all those years in Revere, clearing out the bars, Leo talked a lot and threatened to use his fists or the stick; Joe said very little and meted out punches like an accountant doling out pennies: why use two if one is enough?
In the most typical scenario, some beady-eyed wiseguy at Hurley's Palm Gardens or the Ebb Tide would cross the line, pushing and shoving or uttering a threat. Then Leo would rush forward, barking obscenities, his raincoat bunched around his shoulders and the veins popping in his neck. In the end, either Joe held Leo back, or Leo held Joe's coat.
After his wife died Leo got a little wild, drinking in the joints down on the beach. Whenever possible, Joe would go keep an eye on him. One time a club owner offered Leo “a little pipe job” from a showgirl and some of Boston's best chicken cacciatore.
“Well . . . ,” said Leo.
Big Joe grabbed his partner and shoved him toward the door. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” he asked. “They'll have you on video, and then they'll put Ex-Lax in the cacciatore.”
Despite the trouble Leo could get them into, he was loyal, and Joe McCain prized loyalty above all else. And when they were busy putting away heavies like Joe Barboza, Nick Angiulo, and the Bear, one of the nastiest criminals they encountered was a shooter and home invader named Richard Smith, who was once accused of cutting off a woman's finger to get her diamond ring. Smith was chummy with eighteen-year-old Myles Connor, later to become a shifty art thief and mastermind but in those days the front man for a rock 'n' roll band that played the clubs on Revere Beach. Looking for Smith on a home invasion warrant and expecting him to show up, McCain and Papile staked out a joint called the Beach Ball, and sure enough, near midnight Richard Smith appeared in a stolen car and the two Mets gave chase but he escaped down Ocean Avenue.
Joe and Leo returned to a side street near the club. “I'll bet you he comes back on the train,” said Joe.
Leo laughed. “Nobody's that fuckin' stupid,” he said.
The detectives walked over to the Beachmont Station and melted into the shadows. When the last train rolled in, Smith sauntered over the platform with a rolled up paper bag under his arm, and Joe and Leo approached him as he crossed the street.
“Hey, Smith,” said McCain, and the bad guy wheeled around.
Joe grabbed Smith, and the two men fell to the pavement, wrestling over the paper bag. It got tossed aside, and a number of guns clattered over the asphalt. Leo picked them all up, and by the time help arrived, Joe had the bad guy trussed up in a pair of handcuffs and Leo gripped Smith by the back of his neck and the seat of his pants.
By now a crowd had gathered, and rushing Smith toward the open doors of the paddy wagon, Leo said, “In you go, scumbag,” and propelled the crook over the threshold with a swift boot in the ass.
Richard Smith was indicted in Suffolk District Court and tried on several counts of home invasion, as well as possession of unlicensed firearms. A large gallery observed the opening of the trial, where Smith was expected to plead guilty but instead received a continuance. In the hallway afterward he emerged with his lawyer, Al DeFelice, and stood waiting among a large group of people for one of the two elevators.
Spotting Leo Papile nearby, Smith smirked as the first elevator arrived. “Hey, there's Mr. Kick,” he said, nudging his attorney.
McCain and Papile were dressed in suits and ties, and very few people in the corridor knew they were police officers. “You fucking asshole,” Leo said, lunging toward Smith.
Just then the door of the second car opened, and Joe, wary of Leo's temper, pretended they were strangers. “Hey you, cut that out,” he said, shoving Leo into the vacant elevator. “Behave yourself.”
At the annual McCain Investigations's Christmas party, Leo “behaved” by quarreling with Joe, spilling the requisite number of drinks, and perhaps even saying something indelicate to somebody's wife. Then, at what he deemed the appropriate hour, he would drag a chair into the middle of the room, stand on it, and wave his arms. “I need everyone's attention. Listen up. Hey, fuck nuts, listen to me,” said Papile, frowning at Mark Donahue or one of the other young investigators. “Many years ago, I served in the United States Marine Corps, which were the proudest years of my life. My good friend Joe was in the Navy, and that's very good, but fuck him and fuck the Navy.”
In the midst of Joe's laughter, Leo would take off his shirt and stand there in the middle of the crowded room, bare-chested and smiling at the judges' wives. “I am now going to sing the Marine Corps Hymn. Most of you do not know the words,” said the old jarhead. “Do not try to sing. I will sing the song.”
After two verses and a cacophony of jeers and applause, Leo buttoned his shirt and put on his coat, engaged in some final repartee with big Joe, then gathered up his pals from Quincy and hustled out. North End bookies could've set the line at 2 to 1 that Leo would arrive late at the annual shindig and leave early; his personality required an audience, and he didn't like to drive at night. But the pulse of the gathering always fell after Leo's departure, and soon the washed up boxers and rival P.I.'s and tipsy DEA agents were looking at their watches and calling for taxis.
Seated in a chair somewhere, his tie loosened and an empty glass in his hand, Joe McCain would nod and smile and take part in abstracted conversation, but his face bore a wistful expression and his gaze kept wandering to the door where Leo had gone out. This went on for over a decade, until Joe got sick and died, and then Leo passed away and the office parties at McCain Investigations came to an end.
* * *
HELEN MCCAIN WAS WORKING A THREE to eleven shift on the floor at Somerville Hospital on the cold, gray afternoon of January 29, 1988. Around five-thirty Helen's supervisor approached with a worried look in her eyes and asked for a quick status report on each of Helen's patients. Immediately after fulfilling this strange request, Helen spotted Leo Papile coming toward her in the hallway.
“Leo, what are you doing here?” she asked.
Leo put his hand on her shoulder. “There's been an accident,” he said.
“Was it a car accident?”
“No,” said Leo
.
“Is he dead?”
“No.”
Leo drove Helen straight to Brigham and Women's Hospital in his detective's car. Joey, then twenty-six years old and recently discharged from the Marines, entered the hospital lobby at the same time, and mother and son looked at each other and began to cry.
Every hour through the night a surgical nurse would come out and tell Joey and Helen that Joe was still on the table and holding his own. At 5:30 A.M. the surgeon, Dr. Theodore Pappas, came down to the family room.
“We do not expect him to survive,” he said.
After a couple of hours at home, Helen returned to Brigham and Women's. Police Commissioner Mickey Roache sought her out in the family room and asked if he could do anything to help. She had one very important request. “I want Leo Papile to be my chauffeur,” said Helen. And Roache saw to it.
In their heyday, Joe and Leo encountered situations that ranged from the tragic to the comic, and even a few cases that encompassed both. During the gangland wars, after the murder of Bernie McLaughlin and when their partnership was fairly new, big Joe and Leo were investigating the star-crossed Joynt brothers from Union Square. “Ox” Joynt was a friend of McLaughlin's and a heavy drinker, and one night in the Capitol Café the bartender told him not to sit in a particular seat, which belonged to McLaughlin's purported assassin, Buddy McLean.
“Fuck him,” said Ox Joynt. “He ain't gonna be around much longer, the lousy fuckin' killer.”
The story Joe McCain heard was that McLean and his henchmen waited until later that night, when Ox Joynt was good and drunk, and rousted him up and led him staggering from the Capitol. They drove him to a swampy location in Wellington Circle and made Ox dig his own grave, whereupon they shot him and buried him there. Within a short time the word was passed down that Ox's brother Bobby, a bricklayer and tough kid, was going around town with a stolen gun looking for Buddy McLean. In a place like Somerville, Joe McCain knew that he wouldn't have to wait long or work hard to find Bobby Joynt.
Driving along the McGrath Highway, Joe and Leo received a general radio call about a stolen car, and sure enough, a while later they spotted Bobby Joynt in a vehicle that fit the description, taking a left-hand turn onto lower Broadway. Joe threw the bubble light on the dashboard, and Leo jammed the accelerator to the floorboards and they gave chase. The two cars flew up and over Winter Hill past Paul Revere Park, and on the downslope Bobby Joynt stuck a gun out the window and fired a couple of shots in the direction of his pursuers.
When they made a right onto Main Street down near Cousin's Gym, Joynt skidded wide on the turn and Leo broadsided him, knocking the stolen car into a house and tearing off the front porch. Dazed and trapped in the wreckage, Joynt put his hands up and surrendered to the Mets, admitting that he was trying to find Buddy McLean. McCain actually felt sorry for him, realizing that Bobby Joynt's anguish over his brother and his penchant for booze had compelled him to do it.
At the police station Joynt said the gun, which was a police revolver, had been stolen from a Boston cop and given to a young prostitute named Mary Anne for safekeeping; Joynt wouldn't say how he'd ended up with it. Acquiring a search warrant, Joe and Leo headed for Brookline to interview Mary Anne at her apartment.
Mary Anne lived in a well-kept, three-story brick building in a quiet, leafy neighborhood. Unsure what they would find, Joe and Leo crept up the staircase accompanied by two Brookline cops.
The apartment had two doors leading into the hallway, and Joe and the Brookline captain of detectives lined up in front of one entrance while Leo and the uniformed sergeant positioned themselves near the other. On the count of three, they charged across the hallway, and the force of big Joe and the hefty Brookline detective knocked the door right off its hinges. It flew into the room and landed on the bed, just missing the most beautiful young woman Joe McCain had ever seen and coming to rest beside her trick, a tall, gangling MIT professor clad only in a pair of red bikini underpants. On a tripod beside the bed was an elaborate camera system, on which the randy professor had been documenting his adventures.
Curled up like a kitten and registering only mild surprise, seventeen-year-old Mary Anne was a buxom, green-eyed lass with tawny skin and long, golden brown hair streaked by the sun. Leo and the other cop had knocked in the main door, and even with four strange men gaping at her, Mary Anne didn't blush or blink an eye but remained naked on the bed, smiling at her antagonists.
“Let's go, you two,” said Joe, trying not to stare. “Into the other room.”
“Whatever you say, Officer,” said Mary Anne.
Rising from the bed, the lovely young prostitute waltzed into the living room and sat naked on the couch with her long legs crossed at the knees. Light streaming in the picture window accented the contours of her body, the freckled shoulders, perfect upright breasts, and trim little hips.
“Is this the best you can do?” she asked Joe, keeping her eyes on his. “Aren't there any other criminals out there? The gangsters who shoot people.”
“Actually, we're here to talk to you about a gun,” Joe said. “Who gave— ”
Just then the intercom buzzed, and Joe asked Mary Anne if she was expecting anyone. “Yes, a guy by the name of Gallo,” said Mary Anne.
“Gallo? Not the deputy chief?” asked Joe.
Mary Anne smirked. “No,” she said. “His brother.”
Joe and Leo glanced at each other and shrugged their shoulders. “Are you sure?” asked Joe. The intercom buzzed again, and he motioned for the young prostitute to remain quiet.
“Yeah, what is it?” asked McCain, pressing the button on the speaker.
A man's voice broke over the intercom. “What's going on?” he asked.
“Come on up,” Joe said. “I'm just leaving.”
Joe went into the hallway and started down the stairs. Making a turn onto the first landing, he encountered a short, broad-shouldered man dressed like a Quincy Market fruit peddler: a long, grayish white jacket with a round brown collar and khaki pants. Gallo looked at McCain, arching his eyebrows, and big Joe smiled, raised his thumb, and jerked it over his shoulder without saying anything.
The peddler mastered the last flight of stairs, turned into the hallway, and stood dumbfounded at the entrance to the apartment. The front door was gone. He looked in, and there was Mary Anne naked on the couch, waving to him. Meanwhile, big Joe had followed Gallo up the carpeted stairs and was standing a foot behind him.
The fruit peddler glanced over his shoulder at McCain and looked back at Mary Anne, who was now accompanied by Leo Papile, and his shoulders fell. “Step inside,” said Joe, and Gallo trudged over the threshold.
The Brookline detective patted Gallo down and took his ID and motioned for him to sit down. “Oh, shit,” said the fruit peddler, dropping his head into his hands. “I was just up here to deliver— ”
“Deliver what?” asked Joe, indicating that Gallo was empty-handed by thrusting his own palms outward and upward.
Leo laughed at the downcast fruit peddler. “Don't lie. You're up here to get laid,” he said. “She's only a teenager, you fucking degenerate.”
“Officer, I am— ”
Leo cut him off. “A horny fucking fruit peddler. Who are you kidding? Cut a hole in one of your watermelons and fuck it next time, if they serve watermelons up at Walpole.”
Gallo took the abuse without another word. When Leo was finished, and the other cops had nearly choked on their laughter, he threw the man's wallet back at him and made a gesture that included the MIT professor, who had put his clothes back on.
“Get lost,” said Leo.
The fruit peddler gulped twice. “Am-m I al-lll right?” he asked.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Leo said.
The professor stopped near the gaping doorway, clutching his tripod and camera. “Can I have my pictures back?” he asked.
“Sure,” said Leo. He took the handful of photographs and tore them into small pieces, and flung the chemi
cal-covered bits in the direction of the hallway, where they fluttered to the carpet. “Is there anything else we can do for you?”
The professor bit his lip and followed Gallo down the stairs. Joe and Leo began their questioning.
It turned out that a shady customer named Goldstein had given Mary Anne the .38 for protection. Another trick stole the gun from the young whore and passed it along to Bobby Joynt, who meant to kill McLean with it.
Leo and Joe saved Buddy McLean from Bobby Joynt, but they were only a couple of cops, not his guardian angels. One night just a few months later McLean was with “Suitcase” Fiddler's wife, Helen, and Tony “Blue” Agostino, coming out of Pal Joey's on Winter Hill, and Connie and Stevie Hughes jumped out of an alley between the nightclub and the Capitol Theatre. McLean bolted into the street, but they gunned him down, right there, in the middle of Broadway.
* * *
OFTEN, JOE MCCAIN AND LEO PAPILE'S hard work and timeliness prevented such bloodshed. It was simple: people knew they could be trusted and would tell them things they might not tell other cops. An old neighbor of Joe's from Marshall Street, Peggy O'Malley, was never the prettiest girl on Winter Hill, but she was one of the nicest. Part of a hardworking, respectable family that lived on the top floor of a triple decker, O'Malley was rarely on the street after dark and limited her conversations with the young Joe McCain to what was polite and proper. But after having fallen out of touch for several years, McCain recognized the voice and the name when O'Malley telephoned him one night, stammering that her husband was in trouble.
